“Come.” I take her elbow and guide her toward my master suite where Oleg has already brought her bags. Like everything on the top floor of the apartment building, it’s been appointed in total luxury-every fixture is high end, the floors a Brazilian oak, the bathroom countertops and shower a soft white quartz with flecks of gold and purple swirls.
She looks around doubtfully. “This is your room?”
“Yes. This is where you will stay. So I can take care of your needs.”
“I want my own room.”
I’m not surprised by her request. The truth is, I debated the choice. Having her in my space will tax us both.
But ultimately, I want her taxed. I want her to live under my constant benevolent rule until she accepts me.
At least for the pregnancy.
Keeping her permanently may not be in the highest interest of either of us.
“You will stay here with me,” I say firmly. “Whether I let you out of this room depends on how well you follow my rules.”
Her nostrils flare and eyes flash, but she says nothing. She’s not the type to throw a temper tantrum. I have no doubt when she picks her battle, she’ll be well-armed. She’ll gain more information before she makes her move.
She and I are very similar.
This is a game of chess we are playing. It could be pleasurable for both of us, even though one of us-me-will always win.
A tap sounds at the door.
“Come in.”
Valentina, our housekeeper, enters with a pitcher of iced water full of sliced cucumbers, as well as a plate of snack foods-cheese squares and chocolates, some grapes and fresh cherries. She pours a glass of the spa water for Lucy and holds it out.
“Drink lots of water. It’s important for the baby,” she says in Russian, bobbing her head and smiling.
“This is Valentina. She’s our housekeeper. She prepares some of the food, but we also have a chef who preps and cooks our main meals.”
Lucy takes the glass of water from her. “Thank you.”
Another tap sounds at the door, and Oleg steps in, carrying the pregnancy massage table I purchased today. Natasha, our resident massage therapist, traipses in after him, carrying a basket of supplies and beaming at me. She’s delighted I bought this new table for her use and will be requiring daily massages for my captive.
Her English is perfect-the twenty-five year old grew up in America-but she puts on a great act, turning to Lucy and offering a stream of Russian. “Hello, you must be Lucy. Congratulations on your pregnancy. I’m so delighted to support you through it. I work with a lot of pregnant women because my mom is a midwife.”
Lucy’s brow furrows.
“This is Natasha, your massage therapist.”
Lucy takes a step back, recoiling. “Oh no. No. Thank you, but I must decline.”
I arch a brow. She was so willing to accept pleasure from my fingers earlier, I didn’t expect resistance now. I’m not sure whether to be flattered that she enjoys my touch so much or dismayed that she’s unwilling to accept this simple pleasure I can provide her.
“I want the stress of your change in residence erased,” I say firmly. “The baby should not suffer simply because his parents are at war.”
“I said no,” Lucy says, just as firmly. “I don’t like massages.”
“Why not, kotyonok?”
She eyes Natasha. “Is it even safe during pregnancy?”
“Natasha’s mother is a midwife. She massages pregnant women all the time. She knows exactly what you need.”
Natasha bobs her head, dutifully. “Tell her I have a special certification for pregnancy and lymphatic massage, as well as hot stone massage, reflexology, acupressure, tui na, cranial sacral, reiki, trigger point, watsu, Zero Balancing and Access Bars. If she’s nervous, I can just do an off the body energy healing today.”
I translate the jist of that to English for Lucy, who sucks her lower lip against her teeth as if she’s uncertain. The fact that she doesn’t like being touched by a stranger shouldn’t surprise me. It does make me feel a bit smug about how easily she surrendered to me in her apartment. I didn’t expect her to. It had been harder to coax a response from her at Black Light, and this time, we were at odds with each other. Maybe she has thought fondly about me.
“You will enjoy the massage,” I say firmly. “Lie on the table and relax. From now on, I will take care of your needs.”
“I need to sleep in my own bed,” she snaps. “I need my freedom.”
“And I need to keep you close,” I say smoothly, stopping to turn at the door. “It’s a compromise.”
She snorts. “One-sided concessions aren’t compromises, Ravil.”
I give her a dangerous smile. I like when her claws come out. “The past five months in the dark were my concession. This is how you repay me.”
I see her ice mask slip as I shut the door, and I smirk.
My plan is going exactly as intended.
Lucy
A GORGEOUS PENTHOUSE suite with views of Lake Michigan, an in-suite massage and chocolates. What’s to complain about?
Nothing if I weren’t a prisoner. If it weren’t all being forced on me by a mad man.
But no, that’s wrong. Ravil’s not crazy. He’s playing a game here. Teaching me a lesson. It’s a soft lesson, no doubt because I’m pregnant. Any stress he inflicts on me goes directly to our child.
I’m grateful he at least understands that much.
He’s not a mad man.
I look at the pretty red-headed massage therapist. She has strawberry blonde hair and pale, unfreckled skin. I’d guess her to be in her mid-twenties.
I’m dubious about her skills. Can I trust that the training and certification in Russia is the same as here? Does she really know how to massage a pregnant woman safely?
But other than the language barrier, she appears perfectly capable. Looks American, even, with her short-shorts and cap-sleeved tee, a bird’s wing tattooed on her biceps.